Headlines from July 2017 on THE BEER BEAT.

1987 vintage.

Previously, I've explained several reasons why this blog has gone on hiatus, adding that my thoughts about beer will be posted alongside my utterances about everything else, over yonder at NA Confidential.

You'll find them there via the helpful all-purpose tag, The Beer Beat.

However, whenever the urge strikes -- I seem to have settled on monthly -- I'll collect a few of these links right here. Following are July's ruminations, with the oldest listed first. Some are more topical than others, and I'm past the point of caring about it.

Thanks for reading, if belatedly.

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THE BEER BEAT: Are barstools even necessary? There ARE alternatives, you know.

As David Wondrich explains, more templates of barroom designer than we ever realize actually derive from top-down bureaucratic standards inherited in the aftermath of Prohibition, at times abetted with Hollywood's regimented narrative.

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30 years ago today on THE BEER BEAT: Changing an empty keg the Soviet way.

Here is one of the very first sights I saw in Leningrad on the morning of July 2, 1987.

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THE BEER BEAT: Dan Canon and the welcome return of progressive thinking at NABC.

Most importantly of all, welcome back to the real participatory local world, NABC. I missed your political consciousness these past two years. It was something I'd taken for granted. Maybe it will survive without me, after all.

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THE BEER BEAT: Dollars and cents remain the most rational arguments against AB InBev.

There'll always be exceptions, but life is about the everyday. In the main, as a consumer, I'd like to know exactly where my money is going. Whenever possible, I'd like to see my money directed to indies.

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THE BEER BEAT: "Why Brexit could mean a pricier pint of Guinness."

It's worth remembering that the distance from Dublin to Belfast is a scant hundred miles, less than the drive from New Albany to Indianapolis.

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30 years ago today on THE BEER BEAT: The finest restorative Pilsner Urquell ever, upon arrival in Prague.

I limped to the long, imposing counter where a brawny, mustachioed man stood next to a pair of matching taps, both pouring the exact same nectar, and with a wheeled cart filled with clean mugs. Mustering my courage, I flashed four fingers and muttered, “Pivo, prosim,” having miraculously recalled the proper words without stealing a glance at the guidebook buried somewhere in my day pack.

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30 years today on THE BEER BEAT: The Automat Koruna, one of my favorite pubs (?) in the world.

You told the cashier what you wanted and paid, to be given a receipt, then waited in a customarily long line, handing the receipt to one of the white-smocked beer pourers. The reward was a cool half-liter (or more) of golden, pilsner-style Pražan beer, brewed a few miles away in Holešovice district of Prague.

You consumed your Pražan and also ate while standing at a stainless steel table. There may have been chairs at the Automat Koruna, but if so, I can’t remember them, at any rate, I didn’t ever sit. Crowds were a constant, and stand-up space sometimes at a premium.

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30 years ago today on THE BEER BEAT: Worshipful pilgrimage to the Pilsner Urquell birthplace shrine.

We caught a train from Prague to Plzeň, got there well before noon, and reconnoitered. From the station, the Pilsner Urquell brewery was easy to see and smell, although we knew to inquire at the official state-run Čedok travel agency (actually established in 1920, prior to communism), which surely would be located somewhere in the center of the city.

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30 years ago today on THE BEER BEAT: Meeting the gang at the legendary Imbiss by Gleis 16 at the Hauptbahnhof in Munich.

July 16, 17 and 18 are holy days in the pantheon of my beer travels, for it was on those three days in 1987 that four good friends from Hoosierland came together in Munich. I was joined by Bob Gunn, Barrie Ottersbach and my cousin Don Barry for three nights of Bavarian bacchanalia.

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30 years ago today on THE BEER BEAT: Munich's incredible Mathäser Bierstadt, symbol of a lost era.

For example, “beer halls” in the sense of the Hofbräuhaus generally do not exist in matching scale outside the city of Munich. Moreover, in 1987 a beer hall even larger than the Hofbräuhaus was our home away from home for two glorious evenings: Mathäser Bierstadt, which was tied to Löwenbräu.

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30 years ago today on THE BEER BEAT: Friday nights and Saturday mornings, Munich-style.

It was Don who famously rose, grinned broadly, and disappeared. Later when asked, he insisted that his parting had been effusive and memorable, a valedictory oration surely among the most eloquent ever uttered in such an honorable establishment.

I'm here to tell you that he never said a word.

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THE BEER BEAT: I guess if NABC isn't celebrating its 30th birthday, then I will, with a look back at the 25th.

Yesterday (July 22) was the 5th anniversary of the New Albanian Brewing Company's 25th anniversary, which means the business entity variously known as Sportstime Pizza, Rich O’s Public House, the New Albanian Brewing Company (later, adding Bank Street Brewhouse, now dubbed NABC Cafe & Brewhouse) has celebrated its 30th birthday.

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30 years ago today on THE BEER BEAT: A ferry ride from France to Ireland, with the help of Super Valstar and Guinness.

The magic moment possibly occurred at lunch in Versailles while Bob was still traveling with us, or somewhere amid the Ottersbach/Baylor excursion to Pointe du Hoc on Saturday, but I'm thinking it likely came in Cherbourg on Sunday afternoon. Of course, I'm referring to the time we drank deeply of the Super Valstar, or as it read on the label, "the big blonde."

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30 years ago today on THE BEER BEAT: Stouts galore in Cork, Kinsale and the Hibernian Bar, but in Ballinspittle, not so much.

The great thing about Cork is that it had not one, but two of its own classic Irish Dry Stouts: Murphy's and Beamish. Sadly, they've long since ceased to be independent, but add the ubiquity of draft Guinness, and the city was a stout-lover's dream.

One bar we found had all three on tap at once. By contrast, there may have been two Guinness taps in all of Louisville KY at the time.

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Headlines from June 2017 on THE BEER BEAT.

Previously, I've explained several reasons why this blog has gone on hiatus, adding that my thoughts about beer will be posted alongside my utterances about everything else, over yonder at NA Confidential.

You'll find them there via the helpful all-purpose tag, The Beer Beat.

However, whenever the urge strikes -- probably monthly -- I'll collect a few of these links right here. Following are June's ruminations, with the oldest listed first. Some are more topical than others, and I'm past the point of caring about it.

Thanks for reading, if belatedly.

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THE BEER BEAT: "Please stop calling your legal, open-to-the-public bar a "speakeasy," and other adventures in fake news.

Allow me to suggest that far too many lamentations about the scourge of "fake news" are found to emanate from those who routinely and unquestioningly absorb vast mounds of extraneous bilge written and photographed in the service of food and drink promotion.

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THE BEER BEAT: Falls City nixes its previous expansion plan, and now the new brewery is slated for NuLu.

Obviously, it makes little sense for the Neace family to own a brewery and for it not to supply vast amounts of beer for games played by the soccer team, in which they also have an ownership stake. This new projected brewery location is a bare mile from the proposed stadium site.

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THE BEER BEAT: Ted, Shannon, their businesses, and what happens when creative exuberance meets that immovable capitalist object.

Brugge Brasserie is safe and sound, though there have been tumultuous times for Ted and Shannon, owners of the Broad Ripple shrine to the wonders of Belgian steak frites and ale. They've been compelled by reality to make a difficult business decision regarding Outliers Brewing and The Owner's Wife, their newer ventures on Mass Ave. in Indianapolis.

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THE BEER BEAT: Cincinnati area lagers during Reds baseball on Thursday, June 8. I hear they serve Bud Light at Louisville KY Bats games.

How very avant-garde of them. Next thing you know, Bats management will admit to the existence of iPhone selfies and have a special commemorative event -- or maybe it's finally time for a Mike Calise Bobblehead Night. At the same time, periodic visits to major league parks in recent years have convinced me that in the big leagues, they're getting it. In Minneapolis in 2014 and Cleveland last year, local "craft" choices were many and varied, if predictably pricey.

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THE BEER BEAT: The timeless wisdom of Dean Kay and Kelly Gordon.

Finally you took the abundant hints and stepped off the merry-go-round, only to be nickel-and-dimed into oblivion because now you're a quitter. You find it difficult to address all this publicly, because you can see that the behavior currently being directed against you can be explained by the same behavior once directed against them. That's life.

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THE BEER BEAT: Neace Ventures acquires Tin Man Brewing Company.

For now, just the press release. After U2 is finished tonight and there is time to think, maybe I'll offer analysis, but for now, I'm simply delighted for the Davidsons. They're first-rate folks and I hope this is a power move for them. And this: Damn it Neace Ventures, I was really hoping you'd buy my 1/3 share of NABC. Guess I'll keep having to e-mail that guy in Shanghai.

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THE BEER BEAT: 30 years ago today, labels from beer hunting in Red Hungary ... and töltött káposzta at Czarnok Vendéglő.

Sturdy half-liter returnable bottles were the norm. There were a handful of breweries in Hungary, including the once-dominant Dreher plant in the Kobanya district. The beers they brewed were lagers in the broad German and Austrian tradition, with an occasional dark or bock included in the range. "Imported" beer meant brands from Czechoslovakia, East German and Poland.

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THE BEER BEAT: I'm curious about the origins of the smooth, crisp and milky Pilsner Urquell pours.

I've been vaguely aware that the Pilsner Urquell international distribution effort of late has been emphasizing the "three pours" draft approach. I'm all aboard, and want to learn more. If my pub sanctuary project-in-development gets off the ground, this will be my daily classic house lager -- and make no mistake, Asahi as Urquell's new owner ranks nowhere near AB-InBev's level of multinational swinishness.

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THE BEER BEAT: Day drinking porter with the porters at the market pub.

Historically, a porter is a person employed to carry burdens, as at a market. In the UK, what makes a "market pub" noteworthy is its exception with respect to allowable opening hours.

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THE BEER BEAT: Making light switch covers great again, and other examples of stewed cranberries tasting like prunes.

File under: Slow news day. Or maybe "any publicity is good publicity," this coming from the guy who put Lenin (and Che) on the Red Room wall.

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And a non-beat bonus:

SHANE'S EXCELLENT NEW WORDS: We only want to get drunk, so send away the tigers and climb into your cups.

It is my belief that frequent drinkers of alcoholic beverages, of whom I am unrepentantly one, have about as many ways of describing our condition as the Inuit have for snow.

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Bohumil Hrabal and a night at U Zlatého tygra in Prague.

Mr. Kafka and Other Tales from the Time of the Cult is a collection of short stories by Bohumil Hrabal (1914-1997), who surely ranks in the upper echelon of Czech writers in the 20th century.

Over the weekend, I finished reading these stories, which originally were written during the years immediately following WWII, when a Stalinist variation of Communism was being imposed on Czechoslovakia.

It got me thinking about all things Czech, especially beer.

Hrabal was a fascinating character, born in Brno to an unwed mother as a citizen of the Austro-Hungarian empire, raised in the interwar period of the free Czechoslovak Republic, then surviving repressive Nazi and Communist eras to die in the reconstituted Czech Republic, minus Slovakia. He outlasted them all, and followed his own muse.

Even more so than Havel, who briefly worked in a brewery as "punishment" for dissident activities, Hrabal's life seems to embrace beer. His mother and stepfather met in the Polná brewery (Pivovar Polná), and in honor of thise fact, the writer is buried in an oak coffin bearing the same brewery's inscription.

As an artist and raconteur, Hrabal is synonymous with the proud traditions of Czech pub life. The photo above shows Hrabal, Vaclav Havel and Bill Clinton at Prague's U Zlatého tygra ("At the Golden Tiger") tavern, and such was Hrabal's loyalty to it that to this very day, it devotes a section of its web site to him.

Hrabal, who was a firework of ideas and witty solutions, and who lived the glory and downfall of the cultural boom of the sixties, was surrounded by the best representatives of the intellectual and art world. This place was the intersection of the visits and visitors from all the Word. Everyone wanted to speak to Hrabal and look into the places where the plots of his novels are set.

The only beer U Zlatého tygra serves is draft Pilsner Urquell. One time in 1995, a half-dozen of us stopped there, despairing of being able to find a place to sit as a group. We spotted one man holding down a table, and I tried to ask him in gibberish Czech whether the seats were taken. He interrupted in English and invited us to sit.

No, it was not Hrabal. Our new friend was a native maker of documentary films, who had fled Czechoslovakia many years before but returned after the fall of communism. The filmmaker began explaining the history of the pub, then asked the man behind the counter if he could take us into the basement.

Off we went, threading down two flights of stairs to the cellar, where several dozen kegs of Urquell were stacked around an air conditioner of sorts, which brought the temperature down a few degrees from the subterranean norm. Back at street level, we proceeded to drain rounds of delicious beer. For all I know, Hrabal might have been in the room that night, although neither Havel nor Clinton were to be seen.

All of these memories came to the surface on Saturday, when I was killing time and amusing myself by examining the beer aisle at the Mejier on Charlestown Road.

In front of me on the shelf were twelve packs of Pilsner Urquell for approximately $17, tax included. That's a few cents less than a buck and a half for 11.2 ounces of what remains a fine lager, and maybe the best Pilsner in the world, in spite of its multinational enslavement.

I didn't pull the trigger, because I'd rather spend my money at Keg Liquors. The day will come, and quite soon. I might resume buying Urquell by the case, as I did 25 years ago.

Between Hrabal's storytelling, U Zlatého tygra's dungeon and those bottles of beer, there was a desperate craving for steamed dumplings, roasted pork and another glimpse of the Vltava.

Some sweet day.

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THE PC: One fine evening at the Zlatý Dukát.

THE PC: One fine evening at the Zlatý Dukát.

A weekly web column by Roger A. Baylor.

Drink beer with bitter hops, eat morning soup with garlic, and you will live long.
-- Central European proverb

In 1991, pre-dating my pub career by a year, I was fortunate to have the opportunity to indulge a dream. Communism had fallen, and suddenly there were opportunities for English-speakers in Eastern European countries where language instruction in Russian had not prepared people for the newly opened worldwide market.

Working through a now defunct agency, I landed a job at the teaching hospital in Kosice, the largest city in eastern Slovakia -- then still part of Czechoslovakia, and not a territory known for its beer.

It didn't matter, and I've never regretted for one moment accepting the first placement that came my way. I've been back to Kosice several times since 1992, though not since 2002; unfortunately, I’ve lost touch with the people mentioned below. Meanwhile, Slovakia is independent and a member of an expanded European Union. I hope they’re all doing well.

The article, entitled "An Evening on the Town," originally was written in 1992. I’ve touched it up a bit for publication here.

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Jozef, a dentist, was a late addition to the roster of my conversational English class. He had attended only once prior to a Friday afternoon session in early November, yet even in his absence, I formed a firm opinion that the two of us had more in common than stature.

A big man with a relaxed, open outlook, Jozef played hockey and soccer in the semi professional Slovak leagues of the recently ended Communist era.

My hunch that we were thinking alike was borne out during that same Friday afternoon class, when I noticed his eyes widen as I told the group about my forthcoming cross-country rail pilgrimage to Plzen, home of the Pilsner Urquell brewery.

Wearing a sly grin, Jozef approached me at the end of the hour. "On next Wednesday," he said, "what will you do at night? May we make a meeting? We can go to a good restaurant in Kosice for beer, and my colleagues will go, too."

There were no objections from the lectern.

After class on the appointed evening, Jozef reminded me to meet him and the others in the hospital's main lobby at 5:00 p.m., and when I came down the stairs, he was waiting. Two other students, Ludmila and Vladimir, also were there.

Together we piled into Jozef's weather beaten, dull red, four door Skoda. It isn't easy to place a year of birth on Communist era cars, since the same models were reissued again and again; over the rumbling of the engine, I guessed it was a 1970 model. The other passengers laughed heartily. It was a '79.

We sputtered from the hospital parking lot and lurched downhill toward the center of Kosice, past the 130 year old city brewery (since closed) onto Vojenska Street. The Skoda veered right and slowly accelerated up Moyzesova, then left into the pitch black of Malinovskeho.

Everyone laughed at the provincial ambience of the unlit, deserted street. "It is like Las Vegas, yes?" said Vladimir, and Ludmila answered: "yes, Las Vegas in Slovakia."

"Do you know this street?" asked Ludmila. "We go to the back way," said Jozef. "It is better to park."

The brawny dentist gently eased the Skoda into a space. The car coughed rudely. We began walking, passing through an arched alleyway with chipped, peeling walls, entering a courtyard dotted with stacks of rotted building materials.

The back door to the Zlaty Dukat (Golden Ducat) was open, and behind a veil of steam the kitchen staff was busy. A greasy man in a well traveled black suit seemed absolutely delighted to see us. We were greeted warmly, and he nodded knowingly as Jozef spoke.

We were led to the large ground floor room where clusters of local men and an occasional woman sat at small, square tables no music, no television, just Slovaks seated in groups, drinking, smoking and talking. The room was devoid of decoration apart from standard issue 1950s vintage curtains and a scattering of yellowed Pilsner Urquell posters high up on the walls.

Plumes of acrid cigarette smoke rose from the tables and were dispersed by the lilting motion of a single waitress navigating the floor with a tray of half liter draught beers held expertly aloft, so as to avoid the unconscious gesturing of the thirsty storytellers.

The man in the black suit ushered us into a curtained cubicle marked as "RESERVE" with a hand lettered strip of paper. The cubicle was to be our refuge for the evening. In a space the size of a walk in closet there were six chairs, a table and hooks on the wall for coats. It was intimate, to say the least.

Having settled into our seats and dispensed with small talk, it was time for the business at hand. Jozef ordered four beers. Ludmila leaned over and asked me if I wanted to eat; I was reminded of a German war bride, a Hollywood character actress or a Gabor sister as she spoke good, though heavily accented, English.

Jozef abruptly announced his unshakable preference for a dish called t'lacinka: "Do you like our food?" he asked. "T'lacinka is Slovak food of tradition. At this restaurant, it is very good. Okay?" He literally smacked his lips.

"Maybe it isn't so good for you," said Ludmila. "Maybe your stomach is not good for our Slovak food." Vladimir laughed. Jozef looked dismayed. "No, no," he said, "it is best food for beer. We eat t'lacinka and drink beer. Yes?"

Yes, I agreed.

The beer arrived. One taste confirmed that it was Pilsner Urquell. Three tastes later, it was gone. So was Jozef's. Vladimir, good natured and quiet, abandoned his half full glass to find the waitress and order another round.

I told Ludmila that Slovak food was fine. The previous evening, I'd gone with another student to the Gazdovska wine cellar, an atmospheric, slightly scruffy restaurant where the specialty was bryndza hluska, which I'd heard much about but not sampled.

Every Slovak I'd spoken to considered bryndza hluska to be incompatible with American tastes, perhaps owing to its topping of melted sheep's cheese. Naturally, the Gazdovska's bryndza hluska was excellent: pea sized dumplings in a white gravy, topped with tangy cheese and real bacon bits, and accompanied by a glass of golden, sweet Tokaj wine.

Back at the Zlaty Dukat, Ludmila was impressed by my familiarity with Slovak cuisine. Moments later, two platters of t'lacinka arrived.

I might have yawned, for in the lunchmeat section of the typical American supermarket, you'll readily find t'lacinka. It's called head cheese, or brawn; when pickled, it is souse.

With obvious relish, Jozef said "watch me, okay?" He shifted a stack of raw, chopped onions onto slices of the compressed, unidentifiable, gelatinous meat. He ladled vinegar from a small tureen, dousing the quivering stack of meat by product and onion.

After that, all was flashing forks and lengthy drinks of what, to me, was the world's finest pilsner beer. I didn't hesitate to follow suit, and the t'lacinka was quite good. Why waste time contemplating internal organs and slaughterhouse scrapings so long as they pair with beer?

Later Jozef had a main course of turkey breast stuffed with ham and cheese with what looked to be a full pound of fries. I followed suit, and then we had another platter of t'lacinka, although by this point, I was getting full.

All the while, half liters of Pilsner Urquell disappeared as Jozef, Ludmila and Vladimir regaled me with tales of Slovakia.

Contempt for Communism and Kosice’s local beer was freely expressed. Jozef, who voiced a preference for Budvar over Pilsner Urquell, delighted in telling a "true" story about Cassovar, the beer made by Kosice's brewery the one just down the hill from the hospital, which did not outlast the 1990s.

"Our brewery sent a bottle of Cassovar to Plzen for tests to the laboratory," began Jozef, "and the brewers wait for an answer. They wait for one week, then another week. And nothing!"

Jozef paused, frowning.

"Then comes back the letter to Kosice, and it said there is no need to worry; your horse will be okay."

The laughter had barely subsided when the curtain parted to reveal Andrej, a youthful surgeon from the same English class. Several days earlier, I'd helped him write a letter to a European surgical society, a note in which he expressed genuinely heartfelt thanks for being accepted as a member and equally sincere regrets that he would be unable to attend the annual conference.

He couldn't afford a journey to Amsterdam on a Slovak surgeon's salary, which in his case wasn't much more than the 2,900 crowns ($100) monthly paid to me to teach conversational English.

"Welcome," said Jozef, as yet showing no signs of either slowing or becoming drunk. "We are eating t'lacinka and drinking Prazdroj. Please, you must sit with us and drink. Okay?"

Okay.

Our slippery, black suited host chose this moment to enter and speak with Jozef. When he left, Jozef said, "Last Saturday, I have duty. I treat 38 patients in this time. My pay for this day is normal, like any other day."

Nothing extra for weekend duty?

"No," he replied, wiping foam from his mustache. “For this day I am paid 150 crowns."

Five dollars.

"And this man, this restaurant man, he wants to make a meeting for me to examine teeth. He does not wish to pay me, but these waiters make more money than me."

"More than all of us," said Ludmila.

Vladimir shrugged from behind his glass: "It is a problem."

We spoke of other problems and of the system in the bad old days, and the wonderful beer encouraged candor. Andrej said, “We want the changes, but for us it is difficult. Maybe we will be like America someday."

Jozef reacted to Andrej's words. "My friend was player for the Czechoslovakia national team in hockey,” he said, "and then he play in Los Angeles with Wayne Gretzky. He tells to me in a letter that all is good in America except one thing. The beer is very bad. It is true, that the beer in America is bad? Why?"

Why ask why? I merely nodded sadly and finished my Pilsner Urquell.

It was 8:15 P.M. Closing time was at 9:00 P.M., so we ordered more beer. The waitress told Jozef that beer could not be served any longer on that particular night. Jozef asked her if the restaurant had run out of beer. She said no, there was plenty of beer and they had decided to quit serving it. The reason? None. I was reminded of the time at the pizza place in my hometown when the new employee panicked because the beer had quit coming out of the wall.

The Zlaty Dukat was emptying, the restroom attendant had abandoned his post not unexpected given the stench and his high level of intoxication and the ashtray woman was in the process of completing her only job: shifting mounds of butts into a garbage can.

Ludmila sighed. "It is not private," she said, "so the workers don't care.” Vladimir and Andrej laughed, and Andrej added, "Maybe it will change."

Jozef snorted and waved through the open curtain, but not even his black suited future patient could reverse the closing decree. It was time to go. Jozef paid the bill for the evening's festivities; it came to 300 crowns, or $10 – two days’ pay. We called it a night, and I walked up the hill, past the brewery that housed the ill horse, and home.

Wednesday Weekly: Once upon a time, Pilsner Urquell as the "best beer" in Prague.

Today's writing constitutes a rerun of sorts, because this week's tragic wholesaler error also, sadly, is a repeat. To paraphrase a favorite line of mine: You can depend on Monarch Beverage -- it'll ALWAYS let you down.

Pilsner Urquell has been pouring at the Public House since about 1993 or 1994. Continuously. Never stopping. All the time. Always. Get the picture? Those interested in knowing why will continue reading the essay reprinted below.

Now, these many years later, it is revealed that Monarch, the whoa-stud examplar of beer sales in the Midwest, has become unable to sell 24 quarter-barrel kegs of Urquell in the entire state of Indiana before the sell-by date expires.

That's right: The entire state.

Sales sloth and corporate indifference aside, you'd think that after all this time, someone in a position of authority would take it upon themselves to personally explain to the Publican (that's me) why his or her company is dropping the draft version of a staple product that has been on tap at my place for more than 15 years.

But that would require something approximating a commitment to customer service, wouldn't it?

These guys are worse than Big Red Liquors. While I contemplate ways to make them pay, consider the following.

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Many times I’ve been asked to name my favorite beer, or to identify the best beer in the world. Just as many times, I’ve responded that these are questions beyond my pay grade, and simply cannot be answered.

To take it a step further, such questions make me wary in a philosophical sense. To find the “best” or the “favorite” implies conclusiveness, but certainty in this fashion neither suits the pursuit of the perfect pint nor lends itself to a world in constant flux. The definitions change, and the criteria are altered. It’s why the search continues, and won’t ever yield finality.

However, on scattered occasions, I’ve taken a stab responding to, “What’s the best beer you ever tasted?” Usually a disclaimer is merited: “At the time.” The essay that follows was written in the early 1990’s. I wouldn’t offer the same answer today. But the story recounts one of my fondest travel memories.

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The times of one’s life, the places, and the people ...

To be as precise as possible, the best beer I’d ever tasted (at the time) was consumed at two o’clock in the afternoon on Monday, July 13, 1987. The beer was draft Pilsner Urquell, known in its native Czech as Plzensky Prazdroj, and the setting was an old tavern in that great brewing nation’s lovely capital, Prague.

In June, 1987, I joined my good friend and longtime drinking companion Barrie Ottersbach for a group tour of the Soviet Union that began in Moscow, passed through Leningrad (now St. Petersburg), Latvia and Lithuania, and ended in Warsaw, Poland. As evening approached on July 12, Barrie and I stood alone in the shadow of the monstrous Stalinist Gothic Palace of Culture in downtown Warsaw, having concluded the tour in appropriate fashion with a session at the hard currency bar of a nearby hotel. We bowed to the edifice, and set off by foot for the central train station to hop the sole overnight non-express to Czechoslovakia.

We’d been dazed by an afternoon of inexpensive Bulgarian cabernet, amazed at having uncovered a few bottles of Austrian-brewed Kaiser Bier at the Hotel Forum’s foreign currency bar, and largely felt unfazed at the prospect of the trip ahead.

Of course, these being the days of waning Communism, our jovial mood couldn’t have lasted very long. Although our essential documents – passports, train tickets and couchette reservations – were in order, we had neglected to pack food and drink for the journey. It was Sunday. All stores were closed, and mini-marts were in short supply in Communist Poland in 1987; in fact, so short that they had yet to be written into the five-year plan.

Our backpacks bulged with Soviet black market booty, and we strained to lug them along while desperately foraging for victuals in the vicinity of the rail station’s platforms. Even with handfuls of colorful Zloty, there was nothing to purchase except grainy licensed Swiss chocolate and returnable bottles of imitation cola. The final whistle blew. We boarded hungry, and did the best we could to sleep in the stifling summer heat.

Twelve hours later the marathon rail crawl finally ground to a halt, and we stumbled into Prague’s Hlavni nadrazi station looking like bedraggled refugees from a war zone. Stomachs audibly growling, poorly rested, filthy and quite thirsty, the sodas having long since been drained, we dragged our belongings to the baggage storage check and lightened the load.

Departing the station, we were treated to our first glimpses of Prague’s timeless majesty and the city’s then-current reality: Standing in front of the museum at the top of the long, gentle rise of Wenceslas Square, against a backdrop of the old city sparkling in a bright morning sun, a taxi driver sidled over and asked us if we’d like to change money.

Several minutes later, one of the three official room finding agencies placed us for three nights in an athletic club dormitory on the outskirts of the city. It would be several hours before we could check into the room. Starving and parched, we were cast into the mysterious, gorgeous, crumbling city to fend for ourselves.

Exhilaration temporarily overcame fatigue as we ventured into the winding streets, over cobbled roadways and through strange arches. Soon, to our growing excitement, we found that the city boasted more than spires, spies, stucco and scaffolding – beer was all around us, and pubs were in abundance!

After two weeks in the Polish and Soviet lands, where vodka reigned supreme, we were at long last in Bohemia, the Euphrates of European lager brewing tradition, and the home of the original Pilsner beer. We resolved to walk a bit more before finding a good place to enjoy a draft beer – preferably Pilsner Urquell or Staropramen, or another Prague brand if necessary.

Armed only with an inadequate tourist map, Barrie and I crossed the Vltava River on the famed Charles Bridge, ascended Castle Hill, wandered down the other side, crossed the river again at a second bridge, and finally were devoured by the twisting alleyways that we knew eventually led back to Wenceslas Square. At length, having paused briefly two hours before for a sausage dispensed from a tiny streetside window, we glimpsed the familiar green script of Pilsner Urquell adorning the façade of a faded, orange-painted building.

The final steps were the hardest. We passed through the stout wooden doors of U Dvou Kocek, where Pilsner Urquell indeed was the house beer, the daily beer, and in fact the only beer available.

Blissfully unaware of protocol, we slumped heavily into wooden benches in an interior hallway. Unconsciously drooling, our beleaguered senses slowly were revived by the cozy, smoky, conspiratorial warmth of the main room, where clusters of Czech workers, students, soldiers and officials sat conversing.

Huge platters of pork and dumplings sat before many of the customers, but to man, each and every patron cradled an indescribably lovely mug of beer – and make no mistake: They were glass mugs, not the more stylish half-liter glasses that supplanted them not long afterward. It seemed too good to be true … and almost was.

Alarmingly, the waiters completely ignored us.

We opted for direct action. I limped to the long, imposing counter where a brawny, mustachioed man stood next to a pair of matching taps, both pouring the exact same nectar, and with a wheeled cart filled with clean mugs. Mustering my courage, I flashed four fingers and muttered, “Pivo, prosim,” having miraculously recalled the proper words without stealing a glance at the guidebook buried somewhere in my day pack.

He looked at me quite seriously, then smiled and complied, relieving me of roughly $2.00 while pushing four half-liter drafts across the slick countertop.

The brilliant golden liquid was cool, not ice-cold; frozen beer only numbs the palate, and though appropriate for Pabst, it certainly isn’t necessary for anything as grand as Urquell. The noble hop aroma was evident and enticing, fighting through the billowing white head to reach my nose even at arm’s length. Everything about the beer itself and the venue in which it was about to be consumed spoke of quality, respect, tradition, and the sheer, unbridled joy that one feels to be an adult and to think, feel and understand what is good about life.

When Barrie saw me approach, he bolted from the wooden bench and fell to his knees in a spontaneous demonstration of faith and appreciation that I’ve seldom witnessed in any church – such was the genuine, heartfelt intensity prefacing his gesture of supplication. Seconds later I spotted his eyes, wet with unrestrained tears, his cheeks flecked with beer foam, all visible through the thick base of an empty upturned mug.

Needless to say, my reaction was comparable. I’ll never forget this moment of triumph and revelation, of this sense of beer ecstasy that will never be understood or truly appreciated by anyone who defines beer by the number of calories it contains or the volume of advertising revenue it commands.